‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked.
‘You can peel some carrots if you like. In the larder. Fetch the potatoes and onions while you’re at it. We’ll get this on the stove and then I’ll walk you across to meet the donkeys properly.’
‘I’d like that.’ Hattie followed the direction of Jo’s outstretched finger to a door set in the kitchen wall. Inside, rows of sturdy shelves lined a whitewashed wall stacked with all kinds of produce, from jars of pickles to teabags. On the bottom shelf she found crates filled with fresh vegetables. They weren’t washed and neatly shrink-wrapped like the ones her dad bought in from the supermarket, but dusted with earth. Carrots topped with sprays of green lay side by side with parsnips, broad beans, cabbages, potatoes and onions, and things that Hattie couldn’t quite recognise without washing them.
‘Do you grow these?’ Hattie asked.
‘Might as well if I’ve got the land.’
Hattie was glad she’d put on some old jeans and a sweatshirt as she grabbed an armful of dirty carrots and took them to the sink, because already they were grubby, and a coating of soil wouldn’t do her more expensive items a lot of good. Though she had a feeling she wouldn’t have much use for designer clothing for a while.
‘I bet they taste amazing,’ Hattie said.
‘Taste like carrots.’
Hattie couldn’t help a smile. ‘I bet they taste like amazing carrots,’ she said, running the tap into Jo’s cracked old Belfast sink. ‘My dad pays a fortune for organic ones and I bet these still taste better.’
Jo only grunted. Hattie was learning fast that Jo wasn’t exactly the most talkative woman on the planet. If she did feel the need to speak she used as few words as she could get away with, but Hattie had sort of expected this and she didn’t mind, perhaps because she’d been prepared for it by just about everyone she knew in Gillypuddle. So she hummed quietly to herself as she helped to prepare the vegetables and, when everything was diced and cubed, Jo threw it into a large steel pot with the meat and stock and set it on the stove. Then she went to change into heavy boots and a coarse sweater; when she returned, she gave a brisk nod towards the back door.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
Hattie nodded and followed her out into the courtyard, shutting the door behind her and noting that Jo didn’t go to lock it, nor did she ask Hattie to lock it. She really did trust in providence that nobody was going to disturb her house while she was gone. Hattie didn’t know whether it was stupidly naive or endearingly trusting. She had a good idea what most people in Gillypuddle would say about it, although there was nobody she could think of in the village who would disturb Jo’s house, unlocked or not. She resolved not to mention it to anyone anyway, just in case – you never knew who might be listening.
The afternoon was on its last legs as they walked up to the high field where the donkeys spent most of their days. Come dusk, Jo explained in her own succinct way, they’d have to walk them down to the stables and tuck them in for the night. Then – weather permitting – she’d walk each one back up to the field again the next morning. If the weather was especially unkind then she would either leave them in the stables until it cleared or she had a more sheltered paddock close to the house where she could let them wander under the protection of a variety of broad, spreading trees. According to the individual personality of each donkey (and they did have individual personalities, Jo assured Hattie), they’d either be happy braving the elements or want to stay close to their warm stables.
To Jo, these animals were like family. She obviously wasn’t one for warm words or overstatement, but you could hear the love and pride in her voice whenever she talked about her donkeys. She went over the schedule of their daily care in meticulous detail with Hattie as they walked – what time they had to go to the field in the mornings, what time they came down again (depending on the season and hour of sunset), what day she did their regular health checks, how often she exercised them, and so on. Then Hattie got more specific information – which donkeys were friends and which ones had to be kept away from the others from time to time, which ones liked to make the odd bid for freedom and which ones would probably live in the house if she’d let them. She went over all this twice just to make sure Hattie understood. Hattie almost expected to be told that there’d be an exam on it when they got back to the house and that if she failed it, she’d have to go to bed with no stew.
As soon as they arrived at the gates to the field, the head of every donkey swivelled in their direction. As one, they all began to trot over, making an obvious beeline for Jo. Hattie watched as the lines on Jo’s face seemed to melt away and she transformed, her expression brightening and softening. It was amazing to see, and it only confirmed Hattie’s belief that she really couldn’t be as awful as everyone in Gillypuddle seemed to think. Each donkey shuffled forwards, jostling for prime position and maximum access to Jo, but Jo made sure each one got a fuss and a tasty treat no matter how the more dominant ones tried to muscle in. With obvious pride, she introduced them all to Hattie.
‘Norbert you’ve already met,’ she began. ‘Oldest fella here. Loves his food – should have been a goat. Lola and Loki are brother and sister. Lola wears the trousers, though. Pedro came all the way from Spain. That’s why he’s called Pedro. Such a state when he came to me I could have committed murder for him. Blue… Norbert’s best mate, a beach donkey – did years up and down on Blackpool front; as gentle as anything you’ve ever met. So’s Minty – worked on Yarmouth beach. Speedy’s one you’ve got to watch. A bit bossy and still gets a bit frisky with the girls so you have to keep an eye on him when he’s in the mood. Daphne’s the youngest, though still an old girl. Worked at an industrial museum – they were kind enough to her, but then it closed down and there was nowhere for her to go, so she came here.’
Hattie approached each one with trepidation but she needn’t have. As a girl going to Peanut’s stables she’d learnt that not all horses were as friendly as hers, but every one of Jo’s donkeys were gentle and affectionate and happy to be fussed over.
‘What do you think?’ Jo asked. ‘Think you could get on with them?’
Hattie turned her back to the fencing and opened her mouth to reply. But then she felt hot breath on her neck. She spun around to find Daphne trying to get a good sniff down the collar of her coat.
‘Oh…’ Hattie giggled. ‘Get off, you daft thing.’
It didn’t take long for the others to think that Daphne might just be onto something and soon there was more than one donkey trying to get into Hattie’s coat. Perhaps they thought Daphne had found food there, but whatever it was, it made Hattie laugh uncontrollably.
‘Which one’s this again?’ she asked, pushing away a smoky grey donkey with a white spot on its nose.
‘That’s Blue,’ Jo reminded her. ‘You can tell it’s him on account of his colour.’
‘And I think this is Lola… or Loki?’ Hattie asked as one started to nose in her coat pocket.
‘Loki. Probably thinks you’ve got treats in there…’ Jo’s hand went to her own pocket and she pulled out a handful of brownish pellets. She offered them to the donkeys and all Hattie’s fans suddenly switched allegiance and crowded around Jo.
‘Fickle!’ Hattie laughed.
‘So,’ Jo said, turning to her, ‘you’ve seen enough to decide you?’
‘Absolutely!’ Hattie said, her grin full of childish glee. ‘I can’t wait to get stuck in! What will I be doing?’
‘A bit of everything. Don’t see the point in your duties and mine; as long as it all gets done it’s all the same to me. If you see something needs doing in the house and you have time, do it. Same goes for everything else. I don’t expect to have silliness about it.’
‘There wouldn’t be.’
‘Good.’
‘So… just to be clear, I’d cook and clean and look after the house?’
Jo nodded. ‘When it was needed.’
‘And help look after the don
keys?’
Jo nodded again. ‘Sometimes gardening. If you want to eat, at any rate. I do my own tree surgery in the orchard too, so I’d expect you to pitch in.’
‘Would I have to do mechanics? Like with the tractor?’
‘If I do it I don’t see why you can’t.’
‘It’s just that… I know someone who could do that for us. My friend’s husband is a mechanic—’
‘Don’t need him. No point in getting someone else to do what I can do myself.’
‘Oh. But you said—’
‘You’ll soon pick it up.’
‘Right…’
Norbert nuzzled Hattie and she turned to fuss him. Jo watched and Hattie could sense her approval. The situation seemed relaxed, and Hattie felt they were getting on well – perhaps well enough to ask the thing she’d thought about earlier that day.
‘Jo… can I do stuff to my room?’
‘Something wrong with your room?’ Jo asked sharply.
‘No… of course not. I just wanted to make it feel a bit more like mine… you know what I mean?’
‘It’s yours – I don’t know how much more like yours you want it to feel.’
‘Well, yes, I know, but I wanted to put my mark on it.’
‘You’re not painting it.’
‘OK. So nothing permanent. Maybe I could just grab some stuff from home. Creature comforts?’
‘You’re not here to be comfortable.’
‘When I’m not working I’d like to be.’
Jo was silent and for a moment Hattie wondered if she was going to tell her to get lost and that their arrangement wasn’t going to work after all. But then she nodded. ‘Nothing permanent but you can put some of your own things in.’
‘Like furniture?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about pictures? Photos?’
‘I don’t want holes in the walls.’
Hattie resisted the urge to raise an incredulous eyebrow. She really didn’t see how a couple of extra holes in the wall could make the farmhouse look any less run-down and dated than it already did, but she supposed it was Jo’s home and she got to call the shots.
‘No holes. Got it. Thanks.’
Jo looked at her watch. ‘Time we started getting them to bed.’
‘Right.’ Hattie waited expectantly for Jo to tell her what she wanted doing first. But Jo simply frowned.
‘Who shall I take?’
‘They all need to go – doesn’t matter.’
As Norbert was badgering Hattie anyway and seemed to have decided she was his new best friend, it looked like he was going to be the very first donkey she tucked into bed on her very first day at Sweet Briar Sanctuary.
Chapter Ten
Over the next week Hattie got stuck in, just as she’d promised. Whenever Jo showed her how to do something she itched to try it by herself and, although her attempts weren’t always successful, often she was pleasantly surprised that she could do things she’d never imagined she was capable of. She learned how to keep the donkeys’ hooves trimmed and disease-free (they were animals born for dry climates, so Jo told her, and the damp grass of Sweet Briar didn’t really suit their feet at all, which meant they had to take extra care). She also learned how to check their teeth – though none of them ever made it easy for her – and she learned how much feed was too much, and that they had to move the fencing around the paddock from time to time to stop the donkeys overdoing it on the lusher grass. Hattie imagined them like a load of old drunks who couldn’t stop eating their juicy grass once they’d started, and even Jo had to be impressed with the analogy when she told her. Jo showed her how to take the engine of the tractor apart and – perhaps more importantly – how to reassemble it, though Hattie was certain she’d never remember a single step and would always ask Stu if any kind of mechanical job was given to her in the future.
Hattie and Jo shared most tasks equally apart from cooking which, for some reason, Jo seemed to covet. Whenever Hattie offered to take a turn Jo would direct her to do something else and, when Hattie finished it and came back, supper would either be well underway or ready. She’d allow Hattie to offer limited assistance but that was about it, and she always decided what they were going to eat. It was mostly simple, wholesome food – stew, sausages and mash, chicken casserole – but it was always good and Hattie didn’t mind that it was just plonked in front of her without having been consulted on the menu. And after a day spent working outside she was always so hungry that she wolfed it down and looked longingly at the pot for seconds.
Midway through the week Hattie’s mum came to see how she was getting along. She seemed a little taken aback to see Hattie looking so happy and well. Even though Jo was taciturn and almost monosyllabic in her communications and they rarely sat and chatted in the evenings once the donkeys had been put to bed, she was content to let Hattie head out for a walk along the cliffs or down on the beach or watch TV in her own room on the laptop borrowed from her dad. And when Melinda phoned for a chat, she sounded as surprised as Rhonda that Hattie was getting on so well.
It was a quiet life after the bustle and stress of Paris, but Hattie quickly settled into it. Better still, she was quickly growing to love Jo’s little band of misfits who lived on the high field. The more time she spent with the donkeys, the more she got to know each one’s little quirks. Just like people, they had distinct personalities and habits, and just like people they had best friends and also frenemies. Lola and Loki were practically inseparable; Norbert and Blue bickered like an old couple but got skittish when they couldn’t see each other; Minty always got under the feet of all the other donkeys, as if she was determined to remind them that she was there, just in case they’d forgotten; and Daphne seemed to get excited at the sound of a car engine for some reason.
Hattie loved spending time with them so much that she didn’t even mind the muckiest of jobs – like cleaning sick from Norbert’s fur because he’d vomited some mystery item he’d eaten and then decided to roll in it. Jo had been worried, and if she was honest, Hattie had been too, but try as they might, they couldn’t figure out what he’d eaten or where he’d got it from. They just hoped it was a one-off and that he wouldn’t find any more of whatever it was. He seemed fine after he’d got it out of his system, and so perhaps they needn’t have been so concerned. Hattie was very fond of the old boy already, though, and she hated the thought of him coming to harm.
It was Sunday of her first week and Hattie was getting changed into some cleaner clothes after a day spent weeding the vegetable patch and debugging (by hand because Jo wouldn’t permit pesticides) the plum trees in the orchard. Her phone sat on the windowsill, and when it rang she went to answer, expecting it to be her mother or Melinda checking on her, as they had done periodically during the week. But her brow knit into tight folds as she saw the number on the display, a number she’d never expected to see flashing up on her phone again after the way they’d parted.
‘Alphonse! Salut! Ça va?’
‘Hattie! Is that you?’
‘Why are you calling me, Alphonse? Is something wrong? What’s happened?’
‘I went to your apartment but they told me you’d left Paris!’
‘Well, yes… I came home.’
‘England?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pourquoi?’
‘You know why. I didn’t have a job so I had to come home.’
Hattie’s frown deepened. She’d been gone from Paris for three weeks now and she’d thought she’d made it clear before she’d left why she was going. What did he think had happened? Where did he think she’d gone? He can’t have been expecting her to come back, surely? He’d told her in no uncertain terms what he’d thought of her and, although he’d expressed remorse shortly after the event, it was difficult for Hattie to forget the unkind words. She had decided that their working relationship would never recover after a bust-up like that and she thought the same now.
‘I have no help,’ he said.
‘I have Colette but…’
At this, Hattie had to smile. Colette had worked alongside Hattie and they’d socialised a fair bit too. She was around Hattie’s age, another wild Gallic spirit like Bertrand, and although Hattie enjoyed spending time with her, she could be tiring in too large doses. If she was doing Hattie’s old job now she probably wanted more money than Hattie had ever earned. Colette wouldn’t take Alphonse’s shit and she could give as good as she got. Colette probably didn’t care if Alphonse’s morning coffee was just the way he liked it, she probably didn’t call into Pâtisserie Margot for his almond pastry before she came to work, and she probably didn’t open his post and divide it into bills that needed paying before the bailiffs called and those that could wait.
And Colette slept with almost all of his new models, broke their hearts and made it so they’d never work for him again. Colette was a liability, but it sounded as if she was all he had. Hattie might have felt guilty for leaving him and a little bit sorry for his predicament, but a tiny part of her was still hurt by his unreasonable behaviour after the accident. After all, she hadn’t meant to set fire to his show and accidents happened to the best of people. Before that, she’d been loyal and she’d worked bloody hard for him.
‘Surely you can find someone else?’ Hattie asked.
‘You will not come back?’
‘I don’t think that’s really a good idea. Besides, I’m settled here now.’
‘You have more work?’
‘Yes, I have work and I like it.’
There was a pause. And then he asked: ‘Another designer…?’
‘No, Alphonse, not another designer. I’ve done with fashion, so you don’t need to worry that I’m taking your secrets anywhere else.’
Hattie's Home for Broken Hearts: A heartwarming laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 8
